


Mutations and Revelations

by ShianneUrami



Series: Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShianneUrami/pseuds/ShianneUrami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember when Crabdad had to explain what being a mutant meant?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutations and Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this br1 prompt.](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/18819.html?thread=3723395#cmt3723395)

The first time you hurt yourself, the first time you’d see your own blood, you’d been out in the lawnring circling your hive practicing with your sickles. Swinging them to and fro and trying to flip about. You’d just recently watched an amazing troll Will Smith movie about a Threshecutioner that broke the mold and used a form of dance in his killing, fluid and lithe. You’d tried to emulate it because, well because it’d been really badass! You don’t remember how old you had been at the time, but you were still… innocent is a word, you suppose. Ignorant would be another.  
  
You had stood at the corner of the hive, holding your sickles flat across your chest, serene look on your face, soft almost, eyes closed. You’d been trying to envision enemies around the corner, some soft pink alien species you heard about sometimes, another species you were going to conquer one day. Conquer them all, and you were going to be leader of a great division. Hell yeah.  
  
Spinning around out of cover you’d whipped your blades down in an X but had underestimated where the wall would be and when you brought your blade down, you hit the wall before it followed through, and imbedded your sickle into your thigh.  
  
You remember screaming. It was this hoarse, scared sound. It was a scream for your lusus. It hurt. It burned all the way to your toes and all the way up into your stomach. You didn’t know if you were meant to leave it in or take it out, so you’d done the next best thing and you’d screeched your lungs out, in pain and in fear.  
  
He’d been there in just a few moments, clicking fierce and sharp and angry, ready to ward off any danger. When he found none, he took no time scooping you up into his claws and carrying you into the house. You remember calming a little when his white carapace had been around you, but it still hurt so badly. The color, you remember it so very well. It burned into your eyes, it’s something you’ll never quite forget, the look of it staining your pants and the grass and Crabdad’s shell, brilliant red against stark white.   
  
You remember being laid out on the nutrition block floor, the tiles under you the same sharp white that made your head spin. He’d used his claw to rip your pantleg away from where your sickle was sticking out of your leg, and when you looked down at yourself, a wave of nausea washing over you, it wasn’t as deep as you’d felt like it’d been. Anatomically you knew it hadn’t hit a vein. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a bitch.  
  
A big hefty claw on your chest knocked the wind out of you so that when he yanked the sickle from your flesh, you managed a sharp whimper, but were breathless, you couldn’t scream. Using your ruined pantleg the bumbling idiot did what he could to wrap it up and you tied it off for him, good and tight. When that was done it still throbbed with your pulse, thrumming in your head. There was red on your hands, on the floor, on his shell.  
  
You remember looking at your hands for a while, dumbstruck. Not only was that your blood, but it… didn’t look like all the charts. It didn’t look like all the stuff in the books. You remember looking up at Crabdad with confusion, lashes of panic in your gut. He pulled a fish out of the sink from the haul this nightbreak and showed it to you. Now and then in the river a little ways from your hivestem there were fish who’d hatch funny, they’d have an extra fin or an extra eye, or no eyes at all. You remember feeling pangs of sadness looking at them.  
  
He gestured to this fish’s extra eye, and then to your leg, to the drying blood on your hands, and then to the fish again. You remember looking up at him, instead of the fish, and cringing when he used those powerful pincers to cut it’s head off, hitting the floor with a wet plop. You had swallowed hard and he’d covered your injury and shifted your hands down into your lap.  
  
Leaning in to nuzzle at you, clicking softly and nipping at your hair and horns affectionately, you’d understood.  
  
The fish in the river, hatched and formed weird and wrong. You were the same as they were. You weren’t like your peers. You were a mutant.  
  
You scrubbed the tiles and burned your clothes and ripped up the grass. You erased all evidence. You hid it all. You hid yourself.  
  
You kept yourself safe, in some hope you might not lose your head like the fish.


End file.
